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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792922">the death of a God</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cholerica/pseuds/cholerica'>cholerica</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>inevitability [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>No Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>More Death, Multi, he's a god in this one, this time for realisies, unnamed lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:48:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>921</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792922</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cholerica/pseuds/cholerica</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you sorry?"</p>
<p>"I am not."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>inevitability [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033374</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the death of a God</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>part 2 - the fall from grace</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Atticus once said, "let me die first or I will die twice." Zhelan didn't know that the same applied to him, and he didn't realize it until the very end, until the very last moment when he closed his eyes, gold spilling from every crevice as his hand fell from his lap, and didn't move again. It wasn't until he had stepped into the light did he realize that this wasn't the first time this was happening; but it certainly was the last. And that was perhaps the only good thing about it.</p>
<p>It was almost funny how it all started - the faintness that overwhelmed him, brought him to his knees. Multiple hands reached for him, help him, yet he denied each hand, adamant on making his own way up, just as he always had, and just as he always will. Except there was no will anymore - this was it. Every try had left him falling, till he was on his all fours, fists clenched in anger, in frustration, in denial.</p>
<p>He wasn't ready, but really, whoever was? Even those in sickness, who knew what to expect suffered from the denial, their acceptance just a mask to hide their penance. He pushed back those that enclosed their hands on his arm, concern in their tone as they begged him to let them help. He only looked at them, eyes that were once considered empty now breaming with every emotion, every feeling he had lost over the years. It was all coming back to him - the loss, the sadness, the regret.</p>
<p>When he finally got up, he only fell back again. But this time to hold him where the very people he had hurt, the very people who shouldn't have been there, ever. Yet they were, and that was perhaps the funniest part. All his life, Zhelan spent his life yearning to be around those he loved and those who loved him back. And here he was, in the very dream he looked back upon. Yet he didn't feel as content he'd hoped to feel, he didn't feel as ready as he'd thought he'd be. Instead he felt like crying, he felt like... every person who he had ever hurt felt like. He felt like the very people in the room with him, the ones who had been fooled to love him, to stay by him, to never leave him. He felt like letting it all out.</p>
<p>But he didn't.</p>
<p>He couldn't. Not yet.</p>
<p>"Are you sorry?" They had asked, the sentence filling in the room with a heaviness he thought he had left behind. He looked at them, at every single one of them and felt the flowers in his lungs bloom, take up his oxygen, suffocate him from the inside.</p>
<p>"I am not." He wasn't lying; at least not fully. There was some truth to it, but even that meant nothing. Not now, not anymore. I could never be sorry about this, even if I wanted to. And I want to, I want to be sorry and set you free. But I can't. Is what he wanted to say, but he could hear himself choking up, words gathering but no sound coming out. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to let it all out now. But something in him asked him to wait.</p>
<p>And he listened to it.</p>
<p>He doesn't remember how long he had sat on that chair, held by his lovers. He doesn't remember if he had smiled or not, told them a last time he loved them or not. But he had hoped that it would all go unsaid, maybe he had done enough for it to not be said anymore.</p>
<p>As they left him, afraid to watch the light in him vanish - unaware that it was really the darkness that needed to be let out - he once again longed for their touch, forgetting that it was not moments ago he had been in their embrace, not moments ago he had touched their lips and held their face.</p>
<p>It was only in the privacy did he finally bellow out a sound, a cry leaving him before he had even realized. And that's when it all fell, the Godly cover that shrouded his misery. Gold fell from the corners of his eyes, staining his cheeks bright as his head dropped behind, a sigh relieving him of every lie he had ever spoken. It wasn't enough but it was what he deserved, and that was perhaps the only thing he had accepted.</p>
<p>With every spill of his ichor, he bled sunlight till flowers bloomed from the very touch, till he was nothing but the garden the world had first started out on. With every breath, a part of him fled from inside him, floating around him to cover him in the musk he had once buried himself in. He glowed aurum, a river of halcyon now streaming around him. Yet his acceptance was the last to come, arriving in the cold dreaded feeling of not emptiness, but rather richness of every haunting he had hope to never see.</p>
<p>It was only when everything finally felt at peace, when the gilded blood started piercing out of him, burning through his skin and hallowing him out did he remember everything. And what a perfect time it was too, as the last inch of darkness escaped from him, leaving him as the empty vessel of what he used to be, what he is.</p>
<p>And maybe, just maybe, of what he could've been.</p>
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